A/N: Well, I don't know what the heck I'm doing with this story, but I kept getting reviews, so I thought I'd give it a go. The thing is that I'm not good at writing humor. I mean, really. I'm horrible. I'm much better at writing dark angsty stuff designed to break your heart, and then fix it again with lots and lots of gratuitous mush. But I started this story with a kind of weird humor, so I'm going to be trying to keep it up. Don't be surprised if the tone slips a bit, though.

Oh, and thanks for reviewing! I wouldn't write this if you didn't.

2: Apple Pie

Snape didn't get to the door fast enough. The chime was still ringing when he reached for the handle and the door flew inward on its own impetus, smacking him in the face. "Bloody American impatience," he mumbled, fingering his nose and glaring at his visitor.

She wasn't the least bit put off. "Severus! I brought you supper."

Severus looked blankly at the covered pot in his cousin's hands. "Libby, this really isn't the time . . ."

"Nonsense." She shoved the pot into his hands and trekked backed toward her car, parked crookedly along the street. Snape stared after her, then looked down at the warm pot, seriously considering whether or not to just chuck it into the overgrown bushes beside the door.

He was distracted by the savory smell leaking from beneath the lid. They hadn't had anything besides pre-packaged, re-warmed food for days . . .

Snape remembered to scowl when Libby returned carrying a pie plate, a covered basket hung dangerously on her elbow. "Is this some strange American tradition? Irritating your neighbors at all hours, ringing the doorbell 'til it nearly falls off, and dumping hot dishes into their laps?"

"You mean bringing home-cooked meals to welcome newcomers to the neighborhood? Oh yes. Also for relatives to bring over meals when someone is laid up. How is the poor kiddo?"

Snape stared at her blankly for a long moment.

"Your young apprentice or special student or whatever? The one you said you brought here to convalesce from some strange European disease I can't remember? That kiddo?" Libby settled her hand under the pie plate to hold it securely and waved the other in front of his face. "Hellooooo, anybody home?"

Snape frowned. "Harry is recovering nicely, thank you. But he's still slightly contagious. You can't come in."

"What, you'll carry the soup, the pie, and the rolls all by yourself? Take me to your kitchen."

"No."

"It will only take a minute."

"No."

"I'll leave right away—just have a little peek in at your kid."

"No."

"My, getting overprotective, aren't we?" Libby licked her upper lip, her middle-aged face innocent in thought. "And you always had such a prickly reputation at the family reunions. 'Don't mess with the Snape side of the family,' Grandpa always said. 'They carry a grudge like nobody's business, and don't particularly care for much of anything.' I guess all the rumors were wrong—you seem to care pretty strongly about some random youngster you're only looking after for a little while."

Snape growled. "Come in, leave the pie, and go."

She grinned cheerfully. "That was the plan all along."

The ex-Hogwarts professor leaned backward and peered around the living room. No sign of Harry. Perhaps he had disappeared to his bedroom, as he sometimes did. Snape didn't know what the boy did during those periods, and had not tried to find out. It was enough that he didn't have to see that broken, empty expression, the loose-limbed submission to fate. It was downright disconcerting to see in a teen who had always been infuriatingly confident and defiant of every rule.

"All right," he said, turning back to his cousin/landlady. "Make it quick."

He should have known that it was no use giving orders to an American. Libby pottered companionably about the kitchen, humming something under her breath as she set the soup on the stove to keep warm and uncovered the apple pie to slice it for him, as if he couldn't do it himself.

"Leave the rolls covered until you eat, and they'll be nice and soft. Do you have ice cream?" She opened the top part of the fridge, which Snape had not been aware existed, and shook her head at its yawning emptiness. "No ice cream? A sad state of affairs, Sev, a very sad state of affairs. I see I'm going to have to bring you some essentials. Men have no idea of how to shop."

Snape felt himself bristling like a cat, bunching up to probably twice his normal size. He waited in fury for her to turn and meet his eyes, which she did, finally. She obviously wasn't as sensitive to mental summons as most Hogwarts students were. Sweet Merlin, was he actually missing Longbottom?

"Never. Call. Me. That. Again," he said very, very quietly, and very, very firmly.

Unfortunately, Libby wasn't at all perturbed. "What, you mean 'Sev?'" Yes, he was definitely missing Longbottom. "I didn't realize you didn't like nicknames, Severus. Sorry. Won't happen again.

"Anyway," she continued, turning back to the pie and wiping some sticky goop off the knife with her finger to stick it in her mouth. "It's too bad you don't have any vanilla ice cream. This stuff is the greatest a la mode. I guess you'll just have to make do. It'll still be really yummy."

"I don't like apple pie," Severus stated, just to make sure that that was clear between them. He didn't like anything, after all. That was his story and he was sticking to it.

"Oh, you don't?" Libby looked up at him with big, innocent eyes. "Well, your Harry will like it, anyway." She brushed her hands off, evidently finished with that subject. "I'll be going now. But I'll be back."

He reached out to grab her shoulder so he could make sure the coast was clear before she headed toward the door, but she was already three steps into the living room while his hand was still swiping through the air. Then she paused. "Oh, hello, sweetheart. How are you today?"

Snape reached the doorway in time to see Harry's eyes widen until they seemed to take up half his face, then watched the blur of green t-shirt and blue jeans as the boy fled for the sanctuary of his room.

"Whoops," Libby said softly. "I didn't mean to startle the poor dear."

Abruptly she whirled on Snape, her eyes fierce. "You lied to me. That boy isn't sick—he's traumatized."

Snape realized that he was leaning back reflexively, and hated himself for it. "Why—why would you think that?" he sputtered. He hated that, too.

"Oh, for corn's sake, Severus. You think only British children can be emotionally and mentally wounded? I worked in a state-run daycare center for thirteen years. I know a devastated child when I see one." She looked away, still glaring, and muttered, "Bloody British arrogance."

Snape folded his arms across his chest, his eyes narrowing. "That's a very bad word, Libby. I won't have you teaching it to my student."

"Oh, just chill, Severus." Her eyes traveled over the stack of books on the endtable by the sofa, taking in titles like PTSD and You and "Just Get Over It!" Why This Is Impossible And How to Deal with It Anyway. "You know full well that I am not the problem here. Are you trying to help him at all? Or just hoping it will go away, like an unwanted cold or a 'slightly contagious' disease?"

"Of course I'm trying to help him! I just don't know how!"

Oops. Snape had not meant to say that. He shut down immediately, glaring at the floor. Even so, he was aware of Libby's suddenly-softened regard still fixed on him. He would not look at her. Nope. Not looking.

"You know, you could try asking," Libby said.

He didn't answer.

"Ah, but that would be too easy, wouldn't it?" Libby answered herself, sighing in exasperation. "Men. What is it with men and directions?"

Stone-cold silence.

"Fine." She threw her hands up in the air. "You don't want me around. You made that clear from the beginning. But I'll be back." A slightly wrinkled, work-worn finger thrust its way toward Snape's face, where he was forced to look at it—that or close his eyes like a petulant toddler. "Maybe not for you, but at least for that poor boy you're supposed to be taking care of."

"I'm taking care of him very well by myself, thank you very much," Snape growled.

"Oh, I have no doubt. You're seeing to it that he eats, apparently. That's good. Taken a liking to Marshmallow Stars cereal, huh? I like to see a man standing up and being responsible. Warms my heart." The words were strangely in contrast with the woman's frosty tone, but Snape chose to ignore her. "If you change your mind about asking for help, my number is still taped to the fridge. And I'll be back in a day or two with those essential groceries you don't know how to get."

Snape listened to her stomp away, the front door slam, the screen door squeaking on its hinges, and the maddening roar of an overcharged American engine as she drove off. Then, and only then, did he raise his head and look around the living room.

"Knew it was mistake to let her in the house . . ." he muttered, heading back toward the kitchen to make sure the unwanted soup wasn't boiling over. He paused in mid-step, something caught in the corner of his vision.

He turned slowly, trying to keep his body still. Harry's head was poking out the doorway of his room, wide green eyes staring at his professor. Curse it all. They shouldn't have been arguing where the boy could hear them. Whatever memories he'd retained surely would have bad associations with raised adult voices.

Harry's eyes widened even further when he noticed Snape looking at him, and his tousled dark head popped back inside the room. Snape sighed.

That hadn't gone well at all.

But then, what did, these days?

"I hate apple pie," he grumbled to himself, finishing his journey into the kitchen.

Some things, at least, didn't change. He was sure of that much, if nothing else.

He would always hate apple pie.